Route: Bishkek – Balykchy – Cholpon-Ata – Karakol – Jeti-Oguz – Barskoon – Tosor – Balykchy – Bishkek
The “Issyk-Kul Roundtrip” is perhaps the most conventional route for a first encounter with Kyrgyzstan. I didn’t invent it; I merely adapted it to suit my desires and capabilities. There were things I overlooked, mistakes I made due to insufficient information or a carefree attitude, but overall, it all came together.
The plane landed at Manas International Airport, named after Chingiz Aitmatov, at ten minutes to five in the morning local time. After retrieving my luggage, I bypassed the kiosk selling local SIM cards and exchanged a small amount of money at the currency exchange, just enough to cover my transport to the first hotel and any unforeseen expenses. Everyone knows that airport exchange rates are the least favorable.
In the lobby, a predictable group of suitcase-toting tourists was being eyed by private taxi drivers. I politely brushed them off until I had taken care of my tasks. Only then did I decide to address the nearest driver. He quoted a price of 1,000 soms to the bus station in Bishkek, located about 25 kilometers from the airport.
"Why so expensive? Others charge six or seven hundred," I protested.
"Oh, so you're a local?" he asked, dragging out his words.
As if I were his rightful catch, the driver led me to the dawning square in front of the airport. There, he met another taxi driver, and I was placed in the second car as a shared passenger. In the end, we split the cost, each paying 500 soms.
Along the roadside, rows of white-barked poplar trees stood tall, their broom-like tops reminiscent of cypresses. Unexpectedly, a brand-new Orthodox church appeared right by the road, followed by the domes of a mosque further along. In the indescribably hued dawn sky, the outline of mountains emerged from the clouds near the horizon.
Soon, we reached Bishkek and the Western Bus Station.
The car pulled into the station’s inner courtyard, lined with minibuses parked in neat rows. It was five minutes to six, but the place wasn’t deserted. A small group of people was already gathered by a minibus marked "Express Karakol." I quickly purchased my ticket at the counter for 500 soms—not for 25 kilometers this time, but for the 400-kilometer journey ahead.
The driver loaded my suitcase into the trunk. I picked a seat in the last row (later berating myself—I should have chosen a spot up front, next to the driver, while it was still available) and settled in to wait for departure.
These minibuses don’t run on a fixed schedule; they leave only when every single seat is filled. The driver won’t budge until the minibus is completely full. Moreover, no additional passengers are picked up along the route. This is something to keep in mind when planning travel across the country using public transportation—at least on express minibuses.
The road to Karakol along the northern shore of Issyk-Kul is more popular than the southern route—better road conditions and a shorter distance make it the preferred choice.
Our driver barely circled the minibus, calling out, "Karakol! Who’s going to Karakol? One more person to Karakol!" Soon, the last passenger arrived, took a seat next to me, and at half-past six, we departed.
Over the 400-kilometer journey, there was only one designated stop for a restroom break, surprisingly not far from Bishkek. By then, the road had transitioned from mundane to picturesque, with mountains and gorges appearing. The minibus pulled into a large area offering panoramic views, an ambiguous sculpture, a tourist information center, one large café, and a smaller yurt café. I opted for the latter. They sold tea, kumis, and pastries there.
It was my first experience inside a yurt and my first taste of kumis.
The drink was ladled from a wooden vat, thoroughly shaken beforehand—no doubts about its authenticity. Its slightly tart flavor won me over immediately. Later, I discovered that it not only quenches thirst remarkably well but also invigorates. On a scorching day, armed with a bottle of kumis and a couple of kurut balls, one can easily skip lunch.
The journey continued without further stops. We passed the town of Balykchy (formerly Rybachye during the Soviet era), situated at the far western tip of Issyk-Kul. A railroad branch from Bishkek ends here. The town features a beach, a pier, and charming wooden-plastered houses of the "Russian school" style, complete with decorative window frames and shutters dating back to the late 19th and early 20th centuries—built by Russian settlers in Central Asia.
For the most part, however, the architecture along the route failed to delight. The buildings were often vague in style and appeared in various states of construction—or more likely, decay. The more beautiful the surrounding landscapes grew, the less appealing the structures became. It struck me that nature here seemed to resist construction, allowing only yurts, mosques, and cemeteries to blend harmoniously with the environment.
After Balykchy, the road ran closer to the lake, and glimpses of its waters began appearing to the right, promising a soon-to-come acquaintance. On my left side, I caught fleeting views of local highlights as best I could.
Occasionally, busts of Lenin appeared, facing the road from small squares in front of village councils. Monuments to local figures with distinctive features, sculptures of snow leopards, mosques, evocative cemetery complexes, and clusters of roadside stalls also flashed by. Cows and horses grazed along the roadside.
Somewhere nearby lay Tamchy International Airport—small but convenient for flying directly to Issyk-Kul without wasting time in Bishkek’s stifling heat. However, when I impulsively purchased my tickets during the winter, flights from Moscow to Tamchy were not yet available. Had they been, I might have hastily booked accommodations in the nearest major resort town, Cholpon-Ata.
Cholpon-Ata retains much of its Soviet-era infrastructure, including several sanatoriums. Today, the town boasts many guesthouses, modern hotels, and easily rentable rooms with partial conveniences. I spent hours wandering the map of Cholpon-Ata, reading reviews, and watching videos, only to realize it wasn’t the right place for me.
All the "delights" of a noisy resort life, compounded by the dusty atmosphere of a town located on a main road and its crowded beaches, would not have allowed me the solitude with nature I so craved.
Now, having seen the part of Cholpon-Ata adjoining the highway with my own eyes, I felt relieved about my decision. For peace and solitude in nature, one should head to the southern shore of Issyk-Kul.
However, Cholpon-Ata has its own advantages: its proximity to both airports, Tamchy and Manas, as well as to tourist attractions like Semenov Gorge and Grigoriev Gorge, and the fascinating Open-Air Petroglyph Museum. Spending a couple of days there would have been worthwhile if I’d had more time.
Beyond Cholpon-Ata lies Bosteri—a smaller, quieter resort known for its market, perhaps more suitable for introverts.
Not long after Bosteri, the good road came to an end, and construction work began. For a considerable stretch, we jolted along uneven surfaces until a proper highway returned. Shortly before Karakol, one of the passengers disembarked near the Zhyrgalan Resort (also spelled Jyrgalan), whose new houses could be glimpsed to the left of the road. The resort itself is older, but it underwent renovations last year. It specializes in treating musculoskeletal and skin diseases, among other ailments, with therapeutic mud and mineral water. The climate is also considered healing.
This resort should not be confused with the Zhyrgalan Valley—or as it is fashionably called now, the Zhyrgalan Destination—located sixty kilometers upstream along the eponymous river that flows into Issyk-Kul. It’s a beautiful spot that you can reach by marshrutka or taxi from Karakol for a day trip or a longer stay. Accommodation and activities abound in the valley.
Our marshrutka arrived at the Karakol bus station, the administrative center of Issyk-Kul Province, at 1 PM. The journey had taken six and a half hours. Without the roadwork, we could have reached it in six.
Passengers are dropped off right by the bus station building, just off the main highway. On the highway, the inevitable swarm of taxi drivers awaits. I managed to dodge them, knowing that two marshrutkas—routes 109 and 111—departed from there, passing through the city center. For just 20 som, three stops, and a ten-minute walk, I found myself at the gates of the Karakol guesthouse, where I had booked a two-night stay.
On the same Koenkozov Street, just a block away, is the Karakol Hostel—a different establishment.
Karakol itself, eight kilometers from a ski resort and surrounded by summer attractions, draws plenty of tourists. There’s no shortage of accommodation, from small guesthouses to a couple of large, modern hotels (possibly more).
The Karakol guesthouse, as far as I could tell, had only three rooms on the third floor. The ground floor housed the kitchen and the owners’ living quarters.
My room matched the description on Booking.com (a pleasant surprise in Kyrgyzstan, where this isn’t always the case). The shared bathroom was located on the landing next door, featuring a shower behind a curtain, a clean toilet, always-hot water, a hairdryer, toiletries, shelves, and hooks. At most, I encountered a single-person queue only once.
The house had a beautiful wooden staircase.
When I arrived, all the doors on the second floor’s landing were open. Shyly, I snapped a picture of the room opposite mine—quite ascetic, as you can see.
My room lacked bedside lamps but made up for it with disposable slippers, which I wore around the house, as outdoor shoes were to be left at the entrance by both guests and hosts. Walking in socks was an option too—it was impeccably clean.
While other rooms faced the courtyard and street, my windows offered views of the mountains and the yurt in the yard. The yurt served as the sleeping quarters for the hosts.
Tolon, the calm and kind owner of the house, gently patted the felt of the yurt as he showed it to me—it was from last year, while the yurt frame had been crafted by his grandfather exactly fifty years ago. An heirloom. He invited me to step inside, but I was too shy to accept.
Breakfast was included in the room rate, prepared and served by the hostess at 8 AM. On my first morning, it consisted of a saucer of fresh vegetable salad, a plate with a dozen enormous homemade dumplings stuffed with potatoes, four slices each of cheese and sausage, butter, a jar of kaymak (thick homemade cream), several thick slices of white bread, apricot jam in a small dish, dried fruits, dried chickpeas, some cookies, and candies.
I couldn’t manage the sliced items. “So filling and way too much for breakfast,” I told the hostess.
“You’re in Kyrgyzstan,” she replied.
The hot dish the next morning was:
The spacious kitchen also featured a large dining table, a thermal pot, and several teapots. Guests could enjoy tea throughout the day and cook their own meals if they wished. A group of five from a neighboring country took advantage of this and effectively occupied the kitchen on the first day, noisily cooking and dining from lunchtime until evening. When I returned from a walk, they were still having dinner. They didn’t quiet down until they finally went upstairs, allowing me to sleep. Very noisy people.
The next day, they checked out, replaced by a family from another neighboring country. I only knew they were there because the hosts mentioned them—so quiet and unobtrusive were they. Everyone is different!
Once, a close relative of the hosts, who helped them with everything (it’s a family business), treated me to watermelon in the kitchen. I also got to observe her stretching dough using a small metal tool.
The women’s names there were beautiful but complicated—I couldn’t remember a single one. However, I did recall the translation of one of them—“Moonlight”—which belonged to this kind, quiet young woman.
A tendency toward unobtrusive communication seems to be a Kyrgyz trait. They come across as simultaneously open and reserved, their presence never imposing. Of course, these are superficial impressions.
Tolon shared a story about a Russian woman who had stayed with them for an entire week before my arrival. They had helped her set up a bank card, which she received in Bishkek right before her departure. I listened, feeling like a simpleton. "Wait, you can do that?” I thought bank cards could only be issued in Bishkek with at least a two-day wait and some hassle. I had no desire to linger in Bishkek, so I hadn’t even tried to find out more beforehand.
“But surely you’d need to deposit a significant amount of money to open such a card,” I said aloud, trying to justify my inaction.
Tolon shook his head.
Once, I spoke with a young woman who was convinced that unicorns had actually existed in ancient times and still roamed somewhere in the world today. For her, it was an undeniable truth. She wasn’t some dreamy romantic, either—quite the opposite. She was calculating and modern, adept at shaping her little world to fit her beliefs.
At the time, I merely shrugged. She was impossible to convince otherwise.
Only recently did I realize that in my own universe, the word "city" derives from "mountains." My ideal city must either be nestled on the slopes of mountains or at least have their peaks—preferably snow-capped—gracing the nearby horizon.
Karakol is exactly that kind of city. Its streets end with vistas of mountain crowns, its architecture is charmingly eclectic, and its atmosphere is calm and unhurried, imbued with a subtle charm all its own. I wasn’t looking for polish, which Karakol doesn’t pretend to have, and I felt perfectly comfortable.
A block away from the guesthouse stands the Orthodox Holy Trinity Cathedral, dating back to the late 19th century. Its green grounds take up an entire block and are open to visitors from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.
Much in Karakol seems to close after 5 p.m. I suspect that some businesses and stores don’t even open on weekends.
The cathedral is wooden, built on a brick foundation. Its predecessor, which stood on the same site, was entirely brick but didn’t survive a major earthquake.
Looking at the cathedral, it’s hard not to think of the Ascension Cathedral in Almaty—also wooden, but larger and more ornate, with a festive grandeur. Yet, even this smaller one holds your gaze.
Most of the surrounding grounds are off-limits to visitors, making it difficult to capture the entire cathedral in a single shot from some angles.
The cathedral endured much in the 20th century, but since it was returned to the Orthodox community, the dark chapter of its history has ended. It’s evident that it is now well cared for. The grounds are planted with flowers, and a row of stalls selling artificial flowers stands near the entrance.
According to the map, the Holy Trinity Cathedral is situated precisely at the center of Karakol. Except for the Dungan Mosque and the city market, all my destinations of interest were conveniently clustered within one or two blocks around it. My looped route started and ended at the guesthouse. Stepping out, I turned left, and one by one, every two or three or five minutes, there they were: the tourist information center (Lenin Street, 150), cafés, the souvenir shop "Ethnomir," the local history museum, more cafés, the Tatar Mosque, a bank, the short “ashlyanfu street” (Little Bazaar), and finally, the guesthouse again.
The tourist information center is housed in the most delightful little building.
There someone approached me speaking English, instantly pegging me as a foreigner but failing to recognize me as Russian (and in this city, almost everyone speaks Russian, with few exceptions, I suppose). They explained that 95 percent of the visitors to the information center don’t speak Russian at all—they’re real foreigners. Thus, there weren’t many brochures available in Russian. But the offerings? They were captivating, fit for any season! This city, without a doubt, has enough charm to keep someone entertained for a week or more.
The “Ethnomir” souvenir shop is small and rather pricey. The star of the show here is felt. I’ve read that Kyrgyz felt is considered the best in the world, but the market is awash with knockoffs meant to fool unsuspecting tourists.
I dashed into the historical museum to escape a sudden downpour.
The museum comprises several halls, offering a decent introductory exhibit about the city, the local population's culture, and its historical past.
There’s a quaint room dedicated to Russian folk culture, but honestly, I wasn’t interested—those artifacts are too familiar back home.
Karakol was founded in 1869 by Alexander Vasilyevich Kaulbars, a member of the St. Petersburg Geographical Society, as a military-administrative center on the eastern frontier of then-Kyrgyzstan, situated at 1,770 meters above sea level—not above Lake Issyk-Kul, though. The lake lies twelve kilometers from the city. After the renowned traveler Nikolai Mikhailovich Przhevalsky passed away and was buried on the shores of Issyk-Kul, the city was renamed in his honor. Today, the name Przhevalsk Pier is preserved for that far-off part of Karakol, where Przhevalsky’s grave and museum are located, just a stone’s throw from the lake. He had insisted on being buried in a spot from which the lake is visible.
In Karakol and its surroundings, Russian and Ukrainian settlements proliferated, with many Cossacks among them. Naturally, there were plenty of Asian ethnic groups as well. The exhibit even features some endearingly naive dolls dressed in the traditional costumes of local diasporas.
The 20th century isn’t overlooked.
There is also ethnography hall
Two of the museum's halls display an entire "zoo" of local fauna. The hoofed animals impressed me the most, especially the powerful horns of the mountain ram.
The Tatar mosque, in my opinion, is nothing extraordinary.
The Dungan mosque is a completely different story.
It’s a fifteen to twenty-minute walk from the museum and the cathedral. The mosque is tucked away, so it’s hard to spot from the street—you need to enter the blooming grounds (50 som).
Entrance to the mosque itself is restricted to worshippers, but outside of prayer times, the doors remain open, cordoned off with ropes. Visitors can peek in and observe everything. Truth be told, it’s far more fascinating from the outside.
Built in 1907, the mosque is often emphasized as having been constructed without a single metal nail. A guide leading a Russian-speaking group, whom I eavesdropped on, reiterated this point. Skillfully dismantled, the mosque could be taken apart in an hour—just like a yurt.
Why does the mosque resemble a pagoda, and what does “Dungan” signify?
In short, the Dungans are Chinese Muslims who fled to Kyrgyzstan in large numbers in 1877 to escape religious persecution in China. Many settled in Karakol, where they built this mosque from local wood. Their descendants still live in and around the city today, preserving their unique culture and, most importantly, their cuisine—about which I’ll say more shortly. Without the Dungans, Karakol wouldn’t be the same.
According to the guide, the roof's eaves feature dragon heads designed to protect the building from evil. Those familiar with Dagestan, particularly Derbent, might recognize the distinct features of these toothy faces—similar eaves can be found under balconies there, though made of stone.
And now about Dungan cuisine.
It’s distinctive, naturally marked by strong Chinese influences—or should we call it Chinese cuisine altogether? In Karakol, guided tours to Dungan families, complete with cooking masterclasses, are well-established.
But the crown jewel of Dungan dishes is ashlyan-fu—also spelled ashlanfu, aslyamfu, or ashlyam-fu.
Ask anyone in Kyrgyzstan, and they’ll tell you the best ashlyan-fu is in Karakol.
In Bishkek, you might see signs advertising “Ashlyan-fu à la Karakol.”
Even in Karakol, as they say, you need to know the right places. Local residents in a shared taxi sighed, lamenting that even here, the original recipe isn’t always adhered to (it’s a closely guarded secret, passed down only within Dungan families). Ingredients are often added that never used to be there. Nonetheless, Karakol’s ashlyan-fu remains unmatched. Its excellence, among other factors, lies in the water—Karakol’s water is considered ideal for starch, a significant component of this dish.
If you ask around in Karakol where to find the best ashlyan-fu, they’ll direct you to Saida. But don’t rush to the “At Saida’s” café—it’s not quite the place. Instead, head here:
Yes, yes, don’t be squeamish! On the short, covered “ashlyan-fu street” of the Small Bazaar in the city center, Saida’s establishment is immensely popular: the neighboring stalls are empty, but this one has an international queue and not enough seats.
Ashlyan-fu resembles a cold soup and consists of five main components: gelatinous starch cut into thick noodle-like strips using a special tool, proper noodles, an omelet with vegetables, pieces of meat, and a spicy sauce that acts as the broth. It’s all assembled before your eyes in a deep bowl and costs around 90 som, if I’m not mistaken, along with a pie. It’s best to grab two, even three pies with potatoes. Without one, your throat might catch fire—the sauce is that fiery, a mix of vinegar and pepper. Its exact composition, as I’ve mentioned, is a secret.
The thick white “noodles” on top are starch strips, while the actual noodles peek out from underneath.
I liked the dish, especially the pie. Just kidding! I genuinely enjoyed the ashlyan-fu—spicy and flavorful—but I couldn’t handle the sauce. It’s like drinking pure vinegar. Many left it untouched. Some poured everything into a bag—to-go.
For some reason, Karakol has many stalls selling pancakes with various fillings, while samsa is rare.
On the streets, apricots are sold. I bought about half a kilo or more for 50 som and marveled at how cheap they were. But when I reached Issyk-Kul, I learned that wasn’t the limit—you could find them even cheaper, sometimes for free.
The city has a small international airport. If you wanted, you could walk there from any part of the city. It’s practically pressed against the city’s northeastern edge—on one side is the bypass highway, on another a small neighborhood (one of its streets, unexpectedly, bears the name Alexander Barykin), and fields on the remaining sides. The airport is undergoing renovations and is expected to reopen this autumn. How wonderful it would be to fly directly here—and from here, or Tamchy, fly out.
Modest Karakol grew dear to my heart. I wandered its streets, collecting images of old houses and porches. I didn’t photograph new buildings—they didn’t interest me.
The city center is laid out at right angles, with uniform blocks, just like Almaty, founded around the same time by Russian settlers.
A beautiful two-story mansion with intricate decor at the intersection of Koenkozova and Lenin streets, just steps from my guesthouse, was initially a women’s progymnasium. After years of being repurposed, it’s now home to another educational institution.
There are many other buildings, not as ornate, but each with its own character, soul, and story.
The white poplars give the city a special charm. In Russia, poplars are my least favorite trees, but the ones here are different. They truly have white trunks, perfect for alleys.
The Karakol Ski Resort
City life is good, but the mountains are better.
I had one full day in Karakol. Initially, I planned to spend it exploring the mountains on a tour, preferably one that ventured far. However, even before leaving Russia, it became clear that my physical condition would be better suited to staying closer and not committing to a full day’s excursion. The ski resort seemed like the perfect compromise.
In the morning, I visited the cathedral, the mosque, and the market. After lunch, I left my accommodation, turned right from Koenkozova Street onto Jusaeva Street, and caught the #101 minibus at the stop. I got off at the final station and walked towards the gate at the entrance to the Karakol State Nature Park, where the resort is located.
A pair of collapsible trekking poles stuck out of my backpack. On that warm day, I naively intended to hike the eight kilometers uphill to the ski base, where the lifts I was eager to ride awaited.
The national park itself could occupy a visitor for days. I saw, for instance, a Russian girl and her German boyfriend drive in, intending to camp there for several days.
Admission was 10 som for Kyrgyz citizens, 100 som for those from other CIS countries, and 300 som for other foreigners. I struck up a conversation with the ticket seller, and upon learning I was from Russia, he reminisced about his time studying in Moscow. It turned out we had once shared the same metro station, a connection that warmed the moment. Less warmly, I learned it was already a quarter to three, and the lifts only operated until four at the latest. With the rough roads and my weak heart, reaching the top in an hour and a half seemed improbable—and unwise.
I had no choice but to hitch a ride. The ticket seller kindly helped me flag down a car driven by two young Kyrgyz men. When I saw the dusty, winding road snaking up the mountain, I realized my folly—it would have taken me forever to walk it, even on level ground.
About a kilometer short of the ski base, the car overheated and stalled. Rather than wait, I thanked the drivers, unfolded my trekking poles, and trudged up the road at a slow pace, keeping an ear on my fluttering heartbeat. Frequent stops were necessary—to photograph flowers, sip kumis from a liter bottle, or nibble on fresh flatbread I'd bought at the market.
Eventually, compatriots in a crowded car offered me a lift. I had to sit sideways, but I was grateful for their kindness.
At the ski base, cows wandered freely, and a few people lounged in the shade. The nearest lift—the beginner’s one—stood idle, but it wasn’t yet four o’clock.
The situation quickly became clear. In the summer, the lifts only operate for organized tourist groups. When a group ascends, the lift runs; when they’re ready to descend, a worker at the top calls down to start it again. No group, no movement. However, if 15–20 individual tourists gather, they’ll start the lift for 10,000 som.
After some waiting, twelve of us had gathered. A local guide, waiting for his group to return, vouched for us, and for 830 som each, we were granted a ride.
Oh, that feeling of soaring among the sharp spires of Tian Shan spruces, so reminiscent of last year’s experience at Chimbulak in Kazakhstan!
The first cable car ride was short and gentle, followed by a transfer to a longer, steeper route ascending to an altitude of 3,040 meters. Parallel to our route ran the lines of two other lifts, presumably used only in winter.
While in motion, it’s best not to look up and ponder how the cabin is held aloft by such a thin cable and flimsy hook. I made the mistake of doing so, and the cabins came to a halt. Silence descended; no one in the neighboring cabins made a sound. I began estimating the distance to the ground and wondering if I could safely jump, but the cabins soon resumed their journey, eventually delivering us to the resort’s highest point.
From there, through the haze, one could see Karakol and, beyond it, the pale blue strip of Przhevalsky Bay on Lake Issyk-Kul.
In the other direction stretched the boundless Tian Shan, with a glacier crowning the panorama.
I was reminded of a parable about truth and lies, which I had read in Rasul Gamzatov’s works just before leaving for Kyrgyzstan.
Truth and lies, eternally side by side, debate their importance to humanity. Truth walks with her head held high, traveling straight and wide roads. Lies overtakes her on winding paths and narrow streets, bringing ease and laughter wherever she goes, enabling people to deceive one another without guilt. When truth appears, people grow grim, take up daggers in her name, and commit acts of vengeance for every kind of transgression.
Thus, people love lies and hate truth—a fact lies boasts about. Truth, however, invites lies to the mountaintops.
“On the heights,” says truth, “live the timeless deeds of heroes, poets, sages, and saints—their thoughts, songs, and legacies. Here resides what is immortal and untouched by earthly vanity.”
“No, I won’t go there,” replies lies. “Not because I fear your heights, but because there are no people there. My domain is below, where humanity thrives. They are all my subjects. Only a few dare oppose me and follow your path.”
“Yes, only a few. But those few are called heroes, and poets compose their finest songs about them.”
A beautiful, if somewhat naive, sentiment.
It feels clichéd to recall the songs of Vysotsky about mountains, but how could one not? His lyrics resonate: mountains test a person.
Of course, that doesn’t apply to us tourists on the cable car.
I returned to the base around five o’clock, intending to descend leisurely, with inevitable photo stops, and reach the city’s outskirts by seven. My only concern was the long stretch of road beyond the gate, torn up for construction—dusty, narrow, and bound to be filled with cars kicking up dirt.
But I hadn’t walked 500 meters before a car with a family from Novosibirsk, who had also been on the lift, stopped to offer a ride. They chided me for not asking sooner. I’m always hesitant to impose.
The drive was filled with conversation. The family was on a road trip through Kyrgyzstan, staying in Cholpon-Ata and taking day trips. They criticized the road beyond Bosteri on the lake’s northern shore, vowing not to return despite the southern shore’s superior attractions. They still had to navigate it tonight...
As we drove, my eyes caught herds of horses, some with shepherds, some grazing alone; mares with foals; riders leading spare horses; yurts perched picturesquely on green slopes. How I wished I could have savored these sights at my own pace, snapping photos or chatting with a shepherd.
Still, they brought me to the city center in 15 minutes, then continued to the Ak-Suu hot springs. Every mode of travel has its advantages.
The next morning, I was set to leave for Tosor, a village on Issyk-Kul’s southern shore. I planned to take a minibus departing from the South Bus Station at Toktogul and Torgoev Streets. But on my first day, Tolon had suggested using his brother’s car instead. For 5,000 som, not only would he take me to Tosor, but he’d also stop at the Jeti-Oguz resort and Barskoon Gorge—and perhaps the Kadji-Sai hot springs. A local guide would charge 10–12,000 som for just one gorge.
I promised to think about it. After visiting the tourist information center and a travel agency, I confirmed the price difference. A private tour to a single gorge would cost 12,000 som. I was being offered both gorges plus a transfer to my accommodation in Tosor. Of course, I agreed!
We arranged for his brother to pick me up at 9 a.m. the next morning.
From Karakol to Tosor: Jety-Oguz and Barskoon
Before breakfast, while packing my things, I was inexplicably prompted, perhaps by my guardian angel, to check the hidden pocket of my small travel bag. Inside were some cash and my Russian passport (used to enter the country). The money was there, but the passport was gone.
I checked a similar pocket in my backpack—no luck there either. Worse yet, I couldn’t find my brand-new international passport, which I had brought along “just in case.” This backup passport had machine-readable errors, and I hadn’t found the time to get it corrected.
A chill ran through me. The rest of my vacation flashed before my eyes as a miserable series of trips to embassies or consulates in Bishkek—or whatever facilities we might have in Kyrgyzstan.
I sat down, gathered my thoughts, and searched through everything again. The international passport turned up in a suitcase pocket—I had absentmindedly stashed it there the day before. But the Russian passport had vanished.
I sat down again, forcing myself to recall the day’s events. Yesterday, I had used my passport to exchange money at the bank. Then I went to the market, where I bought a few things. At one point, I noticed the zipper on my travel bag open and my wallet missing. But within minutes, the wallet turned up in a shopping bag, with all the cash intact. It was the market—your eyes dart around, your hands are busy, and you stuff things into random places. That left the bank as the last possibility.
Breakfast was a nervous affair. I brought my bags downstairs to the gate, where Talan’s Mercedes was already waiting. Talan was Tolon’s brother. I asked if we could stop by the bank first. As I sat there, my nerves on edge, I silently prayed.
Talan accompanied me into the bank and exchanged a few words with the guard in Kyrgyz. The guard nodded and confidently approached the teller’s window where I had exchanged money the day before. There, behind the glass, lay my passport in plain sight—I had left it in the tray.
A wave of immense relief carried me through the rest of the day. Had I noticed the loss only at the airport, I would have had to return to Karakol, buy a new ticket, and endure far greater stress.
The overcast weather couldn’t dampen my spirits. Talan turned out to be a great companion. He didn’t pretend to be a guide, and I didn’t mind that he wasn’t one—I was satisfied with having a reliable transfer. Though not particularly talkative, Talan was agreeable, stopping the car when I asked and pointing out good spots for photos. He shared stories about his work in Russia, where he had driven buses in Moscow, St. Petersburg (Kyrgyz people who’ve been to Russia always say “Piter”), Arkhangelsk, and Yaroslavl. We discussed the pros and cons of Volgobas buses, Arkhangelsk’s weather, Yaroslavl’s beauty, and flight costs between Russia and Kyrgyzstan.
The road to Tosor runs along the southern shore of Issyk-Kul. Scenic views begin to emerge near Barskoon.
To the left are foothills and, beyond them, mountains with numerous gorges and canyons carved by streams flowing into the lake. It’s well-known that about 80 rivers and streams feed into Issyk-Kul, but none flow out. Water can only evaporate, which is why minerals accumulate, giving the lake its slightly salty taste.
Some gorges are particularly famous, notably Jety-Oguz (“Seven Bulls”) and Barskoon (“The Leopard’s Tears”).
Jety-Oguz: The Valley of Seven Bulls
This wide gorge is flanked by striking red cliffs. The rock, as I understand it, isn’t stone but compressed clay—though not compressed by human hands. Seven such cliffs, lined up one after the other to form a solid massif, are known as the “Seven Bulls.”
Jety-Oguz refers to the Seven Bulls, the village at the entrance to the gorge, and a Soviet-era sanatorium a few kilometers in. The sanatorium is currently closed, but Talan said the government has repurchased it and plans to restore it.
From Karakol, you can reach Jety-Oguz by minibus for a small fare. However, not all minibuses go as far as the sanatorium—most stop at the village. It’s best to confirm before boarding; otherwise, you might face a long walk or have to hitch a ride. The village itself doesn’t offer much, except for a small shop.
The start of the resort area is marked by a striking rock formation called “The Broken Heart,” visible on the right side of the road.
Under overcast skies, the local beauty is less impressive. The area lacks the blue skies, vibrant colors, and decent restrooms that would enhance its appeal. Yurts and small stalls dot the landscape. I bought a jar of mountain honey after sampling several types. Talan mentioned that honey production in Kyrgyzstan is almost exclusively done by local Russians; it isn’t a Kyrgyz tradition. Indeed, the vendor was Russian.
A bit further past the Broken Heart, the Seven Bulls stand in formation.
Nearby, behind a fence, are the tired buildings of the sanatorium and a small settlement built for its former staff. The scene is rather bleak.
On the other side of the wide gorge flows a turbulent river, its water milky gray and frothy.
Talan pointed out tiny figures of cars and people on a high hill across the river. I wanted to climb up there, but he said his car couldn’t handle the ascent.
With nothing else to do, we headed for Barskoon.
Barskoon - The Canyon of Waterfalls
The Barskoon Gorge, much like Jety-Oguz, has a namesake village at its mouth along the highway and a river of the same name winding through the gorge, crisscrossing from one side to the other. We crossed several bridges over it. If I’m not mistaken, the cascade of waterfalls that most attracts tourists in this gorge is part of the Barskoon River itself, tumbling down from the mountains. However, another river also flows through the gorge, and untangling the web of streams wasn’t an easy task.
Deep within the gorge, accessible via a well-paved road, lies Kyrgyzstan's largest gold mine. After the country gained independence, it was seized by a Canadian company. However, as Taalant explained, the Canadians have since been expelled, and now Kyrgyzstan mines the gold independently. (A few days later, while hitching a ride to Bishkek, I heard another version of events: the Canadians left willingly because they had already extracted all the gold, leaving nothing for the Kyrgyz. If true, it’s both infuriating and heartbreaking.)
After passing through the village, we were forced to stop—smoke began billowing from under the hood, accompanied by the acrid smell of something burning. When the hood was lifted, the smoke thickened. Taalant started pouring some liquid—presumably antifreeze—into a tube from a large container. Meanwhile, I wandered up the slopes, not overly concerned about what lay ahead. The car wasn’t about to explode, my passport was with me, and the rest could be figured out. This was Taalant’s home turf, after all; he’d find a solution and wouldn’t abandon me.
As the rain began to drizzle, I returned to the car. Taalant was fiddling with his phone but had no signal. Earlier in the village, he had spotted his brother-in-law’s car, who lived there and set up a yurt for tourists at a popular spot in the gorge during the summer. Suddenly, mid-sentence, Taalant bolted to the highway, waving his arms to flag down a passing car—it was indeed his brother-in-law, transporting four female tourists to the yurt. While the tourists enthusiastically dispersed to explore the slopes, the men leaned over the car hood, exchanged a few words in Kyrgyz, and then the brother-in-law herded his passengers back into his car, promising to return with water and tools.
We made do with the remnants of breakfast from the guesthouse—slices of vegetables and cold cuts packed into a container by the hostess. Taalant didn’t touch the bread but eagerly reached for a round local flatbread from the market—it was indeed delicious. Soon, his brother-in-law returned with two canisters of water and a toolbox. After some tinkering under the hood, they identified the issue—a cracked pipe. The brother-in-law disappeared briefly to fetch additional supplies and, upon his return, fixed the problem within five minutes. We resumed our journey deeper into the gorge.
By the time we reached the destination, the rain had intensified, and I had to don a raincoat. A fairly spacious area in the middle of the gorge had been loosely organized into a tourist zone: an improvised parking lot, a café-terrace offering basic drinks, scattered yurts, a couple of steaming samovars, and a pair of outhouses with padlocked doors stood on either side. Higher up the slope, beneath the fir trees, a group of horsemen waited to guide tourists to the waterfalls.
It seemed that Taalant intended to take me to his brother-in-law’s yurt—perhaps for kumis, tea, or traditional music. I likely would have enjoyed it, especially in the rain. However, whether due to his other tourists or my insistence on horseback riding to one of the waterfalls, the yurt plan was quietly abandoned. Perhaps I had made a mistake.
A horse and a young guide were assigned to me. The ride cost 1,000 soms—the same amount needed for a round trip to Bishkek on a shared taxi, covering 800 kilometers in total.
Of the three waterfalls, only one—the most sought-after—was visible high above: either “The Elder’s Beard” or “Champagne Sprays.” Some brave souls even climbed toward it in the rain.
Other waterfalls include “The Snow Leopard’s Tears” and “Manas’s Bowl” (named after the hero of the Kyrgyz epic). I was promised a ride to the latter, as it was the closest and spared me from trekking up muddy paths. In hindsight, I should have bargained; surely, the price to the highest waterfall, an hour-long climb, couldn’t be the same as a ten-minute ride to the bowl.
From the photo, the tallest waterfall appeared as a slanted white streak above our heads, but its actual height didn’t translate in the image.
I managed to mount the horse on my own, but controlling it was challenging. The horse followed the guide boy like a mouse following a pied piper, ignoring my commands entirely. Local riders make these horses dance, but under tourists, they become sluggish. When the horse stumbled, the boy asked if I could descend on my own for the way back, explaining that the horse might slip on the wet, root-covered path. “Then return half the fare,” I demanded with a smile, otherwise, it would be robbery. He complied, handing over 500 soms without protest.
I dismounted near the waterfall, as reaching it on horseback was impossible. The boy immediately rode away.
The waterfall, though not enormous, was magnificent in the rain.
I decided to walk downstream along the river, fastening ice grips onto my sneakers to avoid slipping on the muddy trail littered with horse droppings. Wandering through the forest, it felt like being in central Russia—similar, though not identical, fir trees, familiar herbs like thyme, fireweed, rosehip, yarrow, and ripe wild strawberries.
At the base of the gorge, the only point of interest left was a memorial to Yuri Gagarin, who once vacationed here while staying at a nearby military sanatorium. There are two Gagarin monuments in the gorge, but the newer one lacks the charm of the original from the 1970s.
With the rain having mischievously stopped, we headed back to the shores of Issyk-Kul. Taalant paused a few times for my photography sessions before we drove non-stop.
We traveled through apricot orchards, the trees heavy with bright orange fruit. This abundance rivaled what I once glimpsed in the mountainous villages of Dagestan in late May. In the Issyk-Kul region, Kyrgyzstan’s apricot haven, the fruits ripen in late July due to the unique climate. According to Taalant, at the peak of the harvest just a week before my visit, the price for a kilogram of apricots dropped to 15–20 soms.
Taalant pointed out open trucks in the villages, collecting apricots from locals. Residents brought their harvests in boxes by any means available. On our way to the gorge, the trucks had been empty; on our way back, they were packed to the brim with crates. Unsurprisingly, apricot jam is a staple on tourist tables in the region. In Karakol, the hostess refilled my jar straight from a three-liter can.
Tosor: Yurt, Beach, and Trekking at 1600 Meters Above Sea Level
In my new home, Yurt Camp Tosor Tonya on the shores of Issyk-Kul Lake at the edge of the village of Tosor,
neither apricots nor their derivative jam are in short supply, as is the case throughout the village.
Talant drove me to the very gates along a dirt road branching off the village's main street toward the lake. All roads here are unpaved, dusty, and riddled with potholes—dragging a wheeled suitcase would have been a slow and painful ordeal. Not only did he bring me all the way, but he also carried my luggage onto the campgrounds, where not a soul was in sight. Shouting, he summoned a young female staff member. After a warm farewell, Talant left, and the young woman, who was barely taller than my suitcase, took it and led me across the sandy yard to a tiny single-occupancy yurt. It seems she intended to settle me there—not out of deliberate deception, but likely assuming that since I was alone, a single yurt would suffice.
I dropped to my knees; the diminutive yurt, no bigger than a camping tent, could be entered only by peering or crawling inside. A single bed dominated the interior, its foot nearly touching the opposite wall. Once a suitcase was added, the occupant would have space only on the bed itself—though everything inside would be easily within reach. This setup, however, was not to my liking. I pulled out my booking confirmation and pointed to it: "A double room with two single beds."
The girl made a quick phone call in Kyrgyz, then led me to a double yurt on the other side of the camp.
Here it is—my yurt, front view.
The same yurt, rear view.
An artistic display outside my yurt.
Interiors.
Above the foot of the bed hangs a simple electric bulb—functional but inconvenient, as it casts the head of the bed in perpetual shadow. Below it, a socket with a three-port adapter suffices for basic needs. The bedding was clean, the mattress firm, and the blanket wonderfully warm, though the bed itself was narrow. But these were minor inconveniences. After all, a yurt isn’t meant to replicate the comforts of a conventional hotel.
Other yurts vary in size, accommodating two, three, four, or even five people.
There are about twenty in total, ranging in size and all covered with canvas over traditional felt—a deviation from Kyrgyz tradition, likely to shield tourists from the dampness and odor of wet felt during rain.
The camp also had its share of nocturnal visitors. On my first night, something scampered and rustled beneath the yurt’s floorboards, right under my pillow. Judging by the sound, I guessed it to be a hedgehog, a squirrel, or a particularly large hamster.
It was none of these. By daylight, the culprit—a small creature hiding under a neighboring yurt—revealed itself.
Naturally, yurts lack en-suite bathrooms. Toilets and showers are housed in separate wooden structures that resemble constructions from the Three Little Pigs fairy tale. There seem to be two such facilities, one at each end of the camp. The one nearest me had four toilet stalls—ordinary yet gleamingly white, rivaling any Tien Shan glacier in brilliance. Between the stalls, under the open sky, stood two sinks with mirrors and towel hooks. On either side, there were showers with four nozzles each, offering consistently hot water.
The same long wooden building housed the kitchen, a utility room (where two washing machines hummed almost constantly), and other spaces. If you needed to find a staff member, this building was the most reliable place to look. Since my yurt was closest, I unintentionally became privy to much of the camp’s daily workings—thus far the most unique accommodation I’ve experienced during my travels.
Across from my yurt was the dining hall, a similar wooden structure with low tables and cushioned stools where hearty meals were served.
Breakfast was included in the stay, and dinners could be ordered for 600 som.
Breakfasts were typically served at 8:30 AM, and dinners at 7:30 PM, with occasional shifts of half an hour. Punctuality was expected, as meals were laid out all at once for everyone; staff only came by to clear dishes periodically. Guests lingered over meals, sometimes celebrating with drinks. The atmosphere was relaxed, with no one rushed to leave.
The dining hall was the only place to gauge the diversity of the guests—English, Russian, German, and French were commonly heard. During the day, the camp felt deserted. Only groups staying for a single night disrupted the tranquility, arriving excitedly, flocking to the showers, and chatting loudly across the camp. They’d vanish the next morning after a swift breakfast and luggage loading under their guide’s watchful eye.
Lunch wasn’t provided, but two or three inexpensive cafés in the village offered quick service and a small menu of national dishes during the peak season. Shops along the highway sold basic groceries. Guests were advised against bringing food into the yurts, as it could attract ants. Several gazebos with plastic tables and chairs dotted the camp, ideal for snacking, sipping tea, or chatting. Nearby, a large samovar steamed invitingly for much of the day.
Yurts, being sacred nomadic dwellings, require respect. Entering in outdoor shoes is forbidden, except during heavy rain. Fearful of a quiet nighttime downpour, I discreetly brought my suede sneakers inside at dusk. The carpeted entrance, covered in plastic, wasn’t harmed.
Even my leather slippers felt at risk, but leaving no footwear outside might raise suspicion and invite sanctions from the camp's formidable hostess—Tonya.
Tonya commands the camp with an iron will. I realized her reputation when reading reviews before booking. Despite the camp’s high rating of 9.1 on Booking.com, comments were peppered with dramatic accounts of Tonya’s alleged rudeness and tyranny. Yet, photos of the yurts, flowers, apricot trees, and the lakeshore just two minutes away intrigued me. Trusting my instincts, I booked the yurt. I sought authentic, simple accommodations at a fair price, fully aware that expecting deferential staff and luxury would be unreasonable.
And there she was, Tonya. Her commanding presence was unmistakable. Initially cold, she may have been put off by my rejection of the single-occupancy yurt or simply preoccupied with her responsibilities. She neither shouted nor demanded extra payment as some reviews had suggested. She delayed the payment process until her husband’s arrival and never scolded me for using the second bed—something other guests had been warned against.
Ultimately, the camp wasn’t about the yurt but the lake. And the lake was mere moments away.
Just beyond the rear gate, a brief walk across sand brought me to the shore. Along the path, small bushes with vivid berries grew right out of the sand.
These turned out to be ephedra, the source of the alkaloid ephedrine. Every time I passed, I photographed them obsessively, wondering if their emanations subtly affected my mind...
But Issyk-Kul captivated me more
My first encounter with it in Tosor took place on the central crescent-shaped beach, where the village streets lead. Drawn by the sound of splashing water and the laughter of swimmers, I headed there immediately after settling in and changing clothes.
I knew I would swim in this lake—Issyk-Kul!—no matter how cold the water might be. After all, despite its name ("Hot Lake"), it is famously cool, even in the height of summer. The lake’s altitude, 1,608 meters above sea level, and the countless swift mountain rivers of melting glaciers that feed into it ensure this. I had seen those rivers in the gorges—turbulent, carrying milky, silt-laden water.
And yet, what a surprise: the water in the lake is astonishingly clear and clean. Even someone as easily chilled as I am could stay in it for hours.
Near the shore, there are bands of rough stones interspersed with large pebbles, but swimmers clear paths among them, and just a few meters from the shore lies an endless expanse of compact fine sand beneath the water's surface.
Water shoes weren’t strictly necessary, but they made everything easier—allowing you to swim wherever you pleased along the long, winding shore. The beach varies: narrower here, broader there; fine sand in some areas, coarser grains in others.
So this is what you’re like, southern shore of Issyk-Kul…
Black birds, substitutes for seagulls, populate the area. People say seagulls have nearly disappeared from Issyk-Kul because humans have overfished the lake. Whether that's true, I don’t know, but over three days, I only saw one or two large white gulls. These black birds—kargi in Kyrgyz or rooks in Russian—seem ubiquitous, in Bishkek, Karakol, and by the lake. They care nothing for the fact that their northern kin nest thousands of kilometers away. Come autumn, they’ll migrate to Africa, crowing boldly: “We’re from the north!”
I swam on the central beach only that first evening. Afterward, Yulia and Lena taught me to go a little farther left, closer to our campsite, and to claim a spot under one of two old metal mushroom-shaped umbrellas stuck in the sand. The shore there is narrower, but only "locals" sunbathe and swim there. The shade from the umbrella barely covered three people, but sitting by Issyk-Kul without shelter, even on a cloudy day, means getting sunburned within an hour. Let me remind you: 1,608 meters above sea level! Sunscreen with SPF 50+ is essential—better yet, SPF 100. (I had SPF 55. After just an hour in the mountains, my hands and neck, despite being covered, turned red. The lake is lower, but at the water’s edge, the sun clings more fiercely.)
Lena and Yulia were a stroke of good fortune for me in Tosor. I was seated with them at dinner my first evening and told it would be my permanent spot—no switching allowed (seating was arranged by national-linguistic groups). I managed to perch on a firm pouf, adjusting my legs and body to the unfamiliar low table height. The two women sat confidently, already accustomed after several days here. They were due to leave five days before I would. Lucky them.
As often happens while traveling, we bonded instantly and didn’t need to search for common ground. All of us had enough travel experience behind us—newcomers don’t end up in such places.
But I couldn’t hold a candle to Yulia and Lena. Their track records were far more impressive, and their current Kyrgyz adventure was nothing short of astonishing. My own “feats” seemed like mundane journeys to routine destinations in comparison.
They had joined a group led by a German man named Walter, who, with a company of fellow Germans, hired a private organizer to undertake a week-long horseback trek from Kyrgyzstan’s Naryn Region to neighboring Issyk-Kul. The only direct route between the two regions is tortuously vertical, crossing the Tosor Pass in the Terskey Ala-Too Range, whose highest point is 3,893 meters. Starting in the village of Eki-Naryn, where the Naryn and Little Naryn Rivers merge, the route was supposed to end in Tosor, with the final leg passing through the Tosor Gorge. A river flows through this gorge, emptying into the lake just a few kilometers from the village. The group was to spend their last few days here, resting after the challenging trek.
These brave women flew to Bishkek, met the other participants, and together made the long journey to Naryn, then to Eki-Naryn. That was a different Kyrgyzstan, with a different level of comfort—or rather, discomfort—that made our campsite feel like a grand resort. Yulia and Lena, who had never sat on a horse before, underwent a brief riding lesson and set off. They spent six hours a day in the saddle and slept in yurts. Realizing the physical toll and the altitude changes, the women sensibly exited the trek after the first day, returning by makeshift means to Eki-Naryn, then to Naryn, from there to Balykchy, and finally to Tosor, where they waited for the expedition to return.
They saw many sights, visited real yurts, and listened to traditional musical instruments. From Tosor, they made trips to Barskoon and later, with me, to the top-rated destination, Skazka Canyon. Their verdict: they would return only to Eki-Naryn—it was so beautiful and unique that they didn’t care about the inconveniences.
The remaining group members sent updates and photos of their journey. With their permission, conveyed through Yulia and Lena, I share some of these pictures here, simply to illustrate another way to spend a vacation in Kyrgyzstan—how massive yurts can be, how harsh the natural environment, how industrious the people, and how extraordinary the experiences.
As for us, we lazed on the sand and took turns swimming in Issyk-Kul’s magical waters. The lake smelled of the sea, caressed the body uniquely, and made you never want to leave—it felt as though you became as pure and transparent as the water itself.
I don’t remember who first noticed that the sparkling water wasn’t just a trick of sunlight on its surface but was also filled with tiny, millimeter-sized golden particles reflecting light. They looked like tiny, flat specks of gold scattered generously across the sandy bottom. Only a nano-camera could capture their beauty.
We let our imaginations run wild, conjuring visions of gold grains from the Barskoon gold mines carried into the lake by the river. If only we could establish a sand-washing operation, this place would become the next Alaska. And we, as its pioneers, would earn lifelong dividends. Our lives would turn into a fairy tale: America, Europe, Australia, Oceania, the world’s finest resorts... with the Toning camping site as the alpha and omega of it all.
But Fairyland was already nearby, even without gold, and we found ourselves stepping into it.
On the same day as me, albeit earlier, Yulia and Lena had ventured into the Barskoon Gorge, taken there by Emil, Tony and Bakyt's brother-in-law, for three thousand soms. They praised Emil, who had walked with them everywhere, engaged them in conversation, and was both intelligent and pleasant to be around.
Meanwhile, I extolled the Skazka (Fairy Tale) Canyon. They wrinkled their noses skeptically, recalling Eki-Naryn, and suggested it might be better to stay by the lake while the weather was good.
Still, I managed to convince them, and they persuaded Tony (with whom they got along famously). After lunch, Emil drove us to the enchanting canyon for fifteen hundred soms for the three of us. It wasn’t far, just 10–12 kilometers west of Tosor.
The set fee included a transfer to the canyon, a two-hour wait, and the return transfer. We left at four, and the ever-kind Tony assured us that if we returned late, dinner would still be served. After all, lingering in Skazka to witness the sunset—when the colors would be unmatched—was more than justified.
The drive was short. We turned left off the highway, paid a 50-som entrance fee at the gate to the nature reserve, and drove two more kilometers along a winding dirt road flanked by reddish "banks" covered in colorful grass and wildflowers.
It would’ve been wonderful to walk along this road if it weren’t so narrow—there was barely room for cars to pass, and the dust was suffocating. The easiest way to get to Skazka from Tosor is to hitchhike along the main road (essentially Tosor’s central street), get dropped off at the turn with the Skazka sign, and walk the rest of the way. Returning is the same.
But Tony dissuaded us from standing by the highway during peak apricot-picking season: there were too few cars and too many hitchhikers. What joy is there in roasting under the scorching afternoon sun with no guarantee of catching a ride? Plus, there was no guarantee we’d make it back in time for dinner (the subtext was clear: self-organized tourists shouldn’t expect extended dinner hours). Emil was a far better option. Tourists got all the conveniences and perks, and the money stayed within the family budget.
No one regretted going with Emil. He managed to squeeze his car into the makeshift parking area and led us to the starting point of the canyon exploration. He initially promised just to point us in the right direction, but he ended up guiding us for over two hours, revealing himself to be a natural-born guide. Trust me, I know a thing or two about this. If you visit Tony, "book" Emil—you won’t regret it. (Not an ad!)
We weren’t particularly lucky with the weather. The clouds dulled the colors, and only occasionally did the sun peek through, forcing us to constantly adjust our camera settings to capture the hues accurately. But as sunset neared, the sky became hopelessly overcast.
The canyon bore little trace of the recent thunderstorm—almost all signs of rain had vanished. Emil mentioned that the best colors emerge after rain.
Yet, the canyon was still mesmerizing.
There was an "ant with a trunk" inexplicably perched atop a hill (others might see something different)
and the main "attraction" of Skazka—the "Great Wall of China," stretching for many kilometers.
Beyond that were hundreds of meters of clay naturally compressed and molded by time into fifty shades of russet (others say sandstone, but I’m no expert), interspersed with layers of harder rock. (The next four photos, courtesy of Lena and Yulia, illustrate this beautifully.)
Walking, photographing, marveling, and dreaming. Keeping our jaws from dropping. There aren’t many places like this on our planet—it’s certainly no Mars.
Emil directed us upward to reveal unique panoramas or new perspectives on familiar sights, then guided us down again. He helped us navigate descents and climbs, warning of dangerous spots. Fairy tale or not, you could take a nasty tumble there.
We descended to the canyon’s floor, walking along dried-up streambeds that had flowed here—recently? Curiously, Skazka is always called a canyon, although a canyon typically has a river running through it. Barskoon and Jeti-Oguz, on the other hand, are called gorges, despite fitting the definition of canyons.
Remember the fairy-tale "rivers of milk with jelly banks"? Here they are.
"I feel like I’m in some sort of Hobbitland," Lena remarked.
We agreed, recalling prairies, the Grand Canyon, and East German films about Native Americans. This would be the perfect filming location (though better left untouched to preserve its beauty).
One of Skazka’s highlights is the strata of clay in various shades of yellow.
I’m uncertain about the first of the following 4 photos, but the others clearly show ephedra:
Before we left, I managed to eat eighteen, following this "limit." The idea briefly crossed my mind to procure a small jar, sprinkle the berries with sugar, and take them home to support heart health. But who knows how airport security might react—after all, it contains alkaloids. And the benefits of such self-treatment were dubious at best.
According to Emil, as boys, they would eat these berries to their hearts’ content, ignoring the adults' warnings. But children are often forgiven much by life, given a kind of leniency in advance.
Emil ended our route with a flourish. He led us to a place where only a rare few among the dozens of visitors venture. Even those few likely have no idea about the treasure hidden behind the monotonous steep slope and usually turn back.
But Emil is a local. He knew exactly where to climb to reveal another shallow canyon-like valley, a continuation of the "Great Wall of China." Skazka, after all, isn’t the only such ravine in this multi-kilometer expanse of the Terskey Ala-Too foothills—it’s just the most famous. Or perhaps this was still part of Skazka itself; it’s a labyrinth, not a canyon in the conventional sense.
"This is a perfect finale," we unanimously declared, quoting a line from a beloved film.
And those photos? They were hard-won. Climbing up was no easy feat; coming back down proved even trickier.
We stopped a couple of times to catch our breath and take a smoke break. Sitting there, we admired the view, exchanged a few remarks, and simply absorbed the moment. A harmless drone buzzed overhead, and we waved to it. A woman jogged by, searching for a lost teenager (I told you, it’s a labyrinth)—soon enough, he was found.
Emil recommended looking up a drone-shot video of the canyon online—he said it beautifully captures the entire area and gives a great sense of its scale.
There he was, our guide and hero, with the noble demeanor and impeccable manners of a Mohican chief, like Winnetou in his domain.
Effortlessly, he climbed hills we struggled to ascend, relying on trekking poles and hands. He confidently leapt over little gullies, moving with ease and speed, far ahead of us, weighed down as we were by our enthusiasm, constant posing for photos, and shortness of breath. Yet somehow, he always reappeared beside us at just the right moment to offer a hand or help us down from a high ledge.
On the way back, we discussed the possibility of paving the winding two-kilometer stretch of road leading to the canyon from the highway. Undoubtedly, it would make the canyon more accessible but would also harm the surrounding environment. Some places, we agreed, simply must remain difficult to reach.
At the time, it didn’t even occur to me that tourists like me, wielding sharp trekking poles and wearing hooked ice cleats, weren’t exactly helping preserve the canyon’s unique terrain either. Perhaps, one day, there will be staircases and glass bridges, telescopes and airships, and human feet will no longer touch this protected canyon.
Tosor became the culmination of my entire trip, and my time in Skazka Canyon was its apex.
I could end my story about Tosor here, but I find it hard to part with this place. So, I’ll indulge in a brief overview of the "first-line" accommodations in the village—just in case someone finds it useful.
A little west of our campsite, equally close to the lake but hidden behind a strip of vegetation, lies the mysterious yurt settlement "Planetary Eye." It caters to practitioners of yoga, vegetarianism, and Eastern martial arts. ("Those yogis go swimming naked at five in the morning," Tonya informed me once.)
“Their” beach was as wild as ours—narrow, with old sunshades and a cleared path leading into the water.
Tonya often wondered why everyone swam just a few steps from the campsite. She recommended walking a kilometer or so westward to the cape, where no one ever ventured. I set out to explore but didn’t make it due to the heat. Instead, I lay down, listening to the sound of the waves and gazing upward. A cluster of clouds hung motionless above me. Beyond them, I imagined the infinite black cosmos and myself, lying almost upside down in relation to the Earth, yet not sliding off the planet thanks to the incomprehensible law of gravity.
Had I reached the cape and walked another kilometer along the shore, I would have found the yurt camp "Ak-Tengir." I had my eye on this place long before the trip. Judging by photos and reviews, it exudes glamping vibes, with landscaped grounds, pathways, loungers, and all the trimmings. However, it’s rather far from the village for those traveling without a car, and the price deterred me; strangely enough, it’s now listed on Booking.com at half the cost. There, it’s called "Ak-Tengir Yurt Resort" and has a solid 8.6 rating.
Let’s circle back. The nearest neighbor to our "Yurt Camp Tosor" was the guesthouse "Eldos-Ata Eco Hotel," situated slightly inland toward the village but with direct beach access.
The buildings there are modest—one housing the rooms, the other serving as the dining area and shared spaces. Reviews are sparse and mixed, but the Booking.com rating is also 8.6.
Directly opposite the “central” beach, the bright yellow building of the guesthouse "Southern Shore" (Yuzhniy Bereg) stands out—it was my favorite spot in Tosor until I decided I wanted to stay in a yurt.
"Southern Shore" has only itself to blame. Its price-to-location ratio impressed me so much that, back in spring, I started bombarding them—first with calls, then with messages via messenger. But I couldn’t get a clear response; booking remained unavailable for a long time. So, I ended up choosing Tonya’s place instead.
On Booking.com, "Southern Shore" is listed as a newcomer with no rating yet. The price is laughably low—starting at 1600 rubles. Yulia and Lena spoke to some of its guests, and they had no complaints.
We continue walking eastward along the shore, stepping carefully to avoid donkey droppings left by a chain of them trotting by. A flock of rooks scatters as we pass. We stop to chat with an elderly Kyrgyz man, barefoot and trudging across the scorching sand. He claims it's excellent for one’s feet and advises us to take off our shoes. He shares that apricots are being loaded into trucks in the village right now, and in a couple of hours, he’ll be heading with them through Kazakhstan to Russia. We wish him safe travels. "We could use more of your apricots!"
By the water’s edge, about a dozen young Kyrgyz men sit in a circle on the sand, half-dressed. One of them strums a komuz, their national musical instrument. I want to stop and watch, to listen, but I feel awkward.
In the open steppe, facing Issyk-Kul and with their backs to the mountains, the tents of "Lake Glamping IK" glow like something out of a sci-fi movie. Each one now boasts a private bathroom—a new addition this year. Booking.com gives it a rating of 8.1. The site is far from the village, so it’s inconvenient without a car.
The number of accommodation options in Tosor exceeds a dozen if you search via Booking.com or various satellite maps. In reality, I’m sure there are even more, and finding a room wouldn’t be a problem, even in peak season. However, booking during the low season is tricky—not all places remain open. And the high season at Issyk-Kul is fleeting, essentially limited to July and August.
One missed opportunity in Tosor was the ancient settlement just a kilometer from the campsite, which I didn’t visit because of the heat. I also left the village cemetery unexplored. But that’s fine. After all, the primary reason to come to my lake is the lake itself.
Another regret was having only three nights instead of four. Initially, I had booked four. The yurt had to be vacated by noon, and my flight to Moscow wasn’t until 4:55 p.m. I naively assumed I could manage everything—have breakfast, take one last swim, catch a marshrutka, and reach Bishkek’s bus station in time for a direct trip to the airport. I had no desire to linger in the hot and dusty capital.
Later, reality set in. The distance to Bishkek is 300 kilometers, which takes at least five and a half hours of uninterrupted driving on a road under construction—without factoring in possible stops or unexpected delays. From there, it’s another 30 kilometers to the airport. That meant leaving at an ungodly hour, with no guarantee I wouldn’t end up stranded by the roadside, thumb outstretched. My research revealed that relying on passing marshrutkas was risky, and it seemed there were no direct ones from Tosor. Many sources also reported the dire condition of the roads along Issyk-Kul’s southern shore, which would extend travel time even further.
Common sense prevailed, and I rebooked the campsite for three nights, securing a hotel in Bishkek for the final night. It was disappointing, but missing the flight would’ve been far worse—and costlier.
At the campsite, I discovered that Tonya, like other local hosts, arranges "bookings" for seats in marshrutkas heading from Karakol to Bishkek. The process involves calling familiar drivers a day in advance and reserving seats for passengers to be picked up in Tosor. The drivers then ensure their vehicles leave Karakol with enough room for these passengers.
In my case, this strategy didn’t work. Tonya made calls and even posted in some chat group, but no one responded.
So, after breakfast and without my farewell swim, I climbed into Bakyt’s SUV with two Belgian guys. He dropped us off at a roadside stop—me on one side, them on the other, as they were heading to Karakol. Bakyt assured us that either a passing car or a marshrutka would stop, and that the fare to the capital was standard for everyone—500 som. Then, with a wave goodbye, he drove off.
Standing by the roadside under the merciless sun with a suitcase felt both frustrating and unfair. Just a mile away, the lake shimmered invitingly. My yurt, now being prepared for new guests, still stood there, with the giant crate of apricots beside it—a treasure that no one in the world could appreciate as much as I had. Lena and Yulia continued their vacation in the lively company of adventurers who had just returned from conquering the Tosor Pass. Tonya bustled about—no tyrant, as she had seemed at first, but a caring hostess who kept order with an iron hand. Without her vigilance, the pastoral life here could easily descend into chaos.
But for me, the road to Bishkek awaited—a long, hot journey.
A car with two middle-aged Kyrgyz men soon pulled over in response to my outstretched hand. I found myself alone in the back seat, while my suitcase shared the trunk with yet another box of apricots. The men graciously allowed me to lower the windows for photos or even ask them to stop if needed.
We traveled to the beats of an impromptu Disco of the Eighties: “Privet” by Sekret, “Plot” and “Sto chasov” by Loza, “The Last Train”, and Modern Talking. It all felt oddly mismatched with the landscapes outside. Traditional Kyrgyz music would have suited the scenery better, but oddly, I had barely heard any local tunes during my entire time in Kyrgyzstan. The driver had a particular fondness for “Na belom-belom pokryvale yanvarya” ("On January's White Blanket") and played it repeatedly, perhaps finding solace in the thought of snow amid the 30°C heat.
Luckily, my companions were smokers who refrained from lighting up in the car. Instead, they stopped periodically for smoke breaks, giving me a chance to stretch my legs, take in the fresh air, and snap a few pictures.
To the left of the road, the foothills initially hinted at the proximity of the Skazka (Fairy Tale) Canyon.
Road construction unfolded on an extraordinary scale. Talant had already mentioned that the highway was being widened to 16 meters—what had been two lanes would become four. Piles of gravel and sand stretched for hundreds of meters, perfectly conical, but the road workers themselves were sparse, barely enough to count on two hands, even on this Monday morning. “This will take two years at least,” predicted the driver, “if not four.”
We passed the village of Kadji-Sai, a flagship of south-coast tourism, situated directly across the lake from Cholpon-Ata. It seemed to mimic its northern counterpart with shops lining the roadside, their colorful displays of beach goods, signs like “At Uncle Misha's”, scantily clad vacationers, summer cafés, and beach music.
Steep road signs indicating a 12% incline appeared frequently. The lake disappeared from view as the terrain rose sharply on both sides.
It seems we refueled in Bokonbayevo,
and later stopped at the Keksen-Bel Pass—“Broken Ridge.” Here, a sculpture of a snow leopard graces one side of the road, while a modest building stands on the other.
The lake disappeared from sight for an extended stretch before reappearing once more. I kept my gaze fixed on it, realizing that soon we would turn westward, and I might never see it again. Farewell, or perhaps goodbye, my gentle little sea. May your waters remain the purest in the world, enduring all human encroachments. May your shores remain untouched, free of towering resort complexes and the scars of overdevelopment. May all life around you thrive. Let the Kyrgyz people, who have inherited this treasure, prosper. Let there always be Sun, Sky, Earth—and Issyk-Kul.
As we approached the lakeside plain, the long, pale stretch of Balykchy unfurled before us—a city of drivers, a city of winds, as one of my companions called it.
Here, my “round-the-lake” journey came full circle. From Balykchy to Bishkek, we traveled the same road I had taken upon arrival. This time, however, my view was better, so forgive me—one last dose of mountain landscapes.
For an extra 300 soms on top of the 500 for the ride to Bishkek, I was dropped off directly at a hotel on Jusup Abdrahmanov Street, formerly Sovietskaya. Finding it took some effort due to extensive roadworks on Chuy Avenue and the whims of the GPS (Alice or Marusya), which insisted on leading the car either into Karagach Grove or the maze of shabby alleys in a less-than-picturesque residential area with patched fences and decrepit huts. The stifling air, streaming in through the open windows, filled the car, but stepping out by the hotel doors felt even worse—35 degrees Celsius.
The "deluxe" room at 281 Hotel & Hostel didn’t quite live up to its name but was the most comfortable accommodation I’d had in Kyrgyzstan. The much-needed air conditioner, affixed above the bed, worked perfectly. Best of all, the room had its own bathroom.
After checking in and taking a shower, I forced myself to venture into the city. My plans and carefully drawn maps? Completely thrown out the window (a word Dostoevsky himself deemed literary). I had no desire to see the first mayor’s house, which was just across the road behind Dordoi Stadium, or Ala-Too Square, or even the long-awaited State History Museum. The air of Bishkek that evening was no air at all but rather a noxious mixture of exhaust fumes, dust, and suspended particles, evenly spread from ground to sky. Large-scale roadworks seemed purposefully timed to worsen the situation. My eyes, nose, and lungs protested immediately. The abundant greenery and irrigation channels flowing with water did little to improve the atmosphere.
And yet, people strolled around unbothered—no masks, no discontented faces, no environmental protests. Scooters zipped by, couples held hands, young parents pushed strollers, and elderly ladies walked with canes.
I managed to stave off dehydration and heatstroke thanks to the wide availability of unique local beverages sold at nearly every corner.
There was chalap—a tangy, milk-based drink made from cow’s milk; maksym (as pictured)—a pleasantly sour “liquid bread”; and kvass, which seemed to be prepared according to Soviet-era standards. The latter reminded me of the kvass I last drank in Russia in the early 1990s from a street barrel, before it devolved into the diluted, fizzy swill sold today. A small cup cost 18–22 soms, a 400-milliliter one was 40–44 soms, and a liter was also available.
Moving from one beverage stand to the next, sampling a new drink each time, I managed to see a few sights along the way. My destination, however, was clear: TSUM (Central Department Store) on Chuy Avenue. I needed to get rid of my leftover soms.
Central Mosque: Named after Imam Sarakhsi and known as Borborduk, it’s the largest mosque in Central Asia, not just Bishkek. Built to a Turkish design and seemingly with Turkish funding, its immense scale wasn’t fully captured in my photos—I didn’t have the energy or motivation to walk all around it.
Trees with astonishingly large leaves: Their presence was both surprising and delightful.
Kyrgyz National Opera and Ballet Theatre: Located on Abdrahmanov Street, it stood out with its classic architecture.
Abai Kunanbaev Monument and a Park: Behind the theatre, I found a park featuring a statue of the great Kazakh poet and an abandoned souvenir shop, now a café called “Snail,” which appeared to be no longer in operation. The site has potential to become a gem, but for now, it remains neglected.
Public Square near TSUM: This bustling area had its own charm, though overshadowed by the heavy smog.
Inside TSUM, the third floor was dedicated to souvenirs. I was surprised by the prices—similar items in TSUM Almaty were nearly half as expensive. The selection included leather goods, felt crafts, t-shirts, and carpets. Among the treasures were felt slippers that looked like ankle boots without shafts. The brightly colored, machine-embroidered ones tourists love to buy (I wear them at home) are often made with synthetic blends or entirely without wool.
The next day at noon, I checked out of the hotel. Using the lobby’s Wi-Fi, I called a Yandex Taxi and opted to pay in cash. The driver dropped me at the West Bus Terminal, where I began my search for marshrutkas (shared minibuses) to the airport. Nobody seemed to know anything about them—not the ticket sellers, not the platform staff, no one. I wandered stubbornly around the massive station, dragging my suitcase and being redirected from one end to the other:
“Try over there!”
Only to hear, “No, go that way!” or “Maybe it’s from there. Ask at the stop.”
The scorching sun, the humming vehicles, and the stench in the air intensified my frustration. Around me, drivers shouted their destinations: “Osh! Osh!” “Anyone for Naryn?” “Balykchy, Cholpon-Ata!” Allah above, it seemed easier to get to Osh or Naryn than to the airport.
After about 40 minutes, having tried every available drink—chalap, iced tea, and more—I finally snapped. I sank onto a bench, turned on my mobile data, and asked for help in a visitors’ chat group. Within three minutes, I learned the bitter truth: airport marshrutkas had never operated from the bus terminal. Their stop was several long, dusty blocks away on Julius Fucik Street.
Google Maps helpfully suggested a bus route to get there. No, thank you—I’d had enough. If I’d known, I would have called a taxi to the airport directly from the hotel. Why had I convinced myself marshrutkas departed from the bus terminal?
Lacking enough soms for a taxi, I trudged to the station’s currency exchange, where I found the best exchange rate I’d seen yet. I should have exchanged all my money on the day I arrived.
Three hours remained until my flight. Yandex Taxi delivered me to the airport for 930 soms. The airport in Bishkek was a pleasant surprise, outshining Almaty’s by far. It was clean and spacious. Souvenirs were available for purchase in both soms and rubles—pricier, of course, but this was an airport, after all. I regret not trying the local wine; I’d already packed Kyrgyz cognac and herbal balm from a supermarket in my suitcase.
Aftermath of the Trip
The trip left me with a sense of melancholy and depression no less intense than the one I feel after returning from more prestigious and comfortable warm destinations.
And also a flare-up of allergic bronchitis—thank you, Bishkek. I hope we don’t meet again.
I’ve added a new word to my vocabulary—antifreeze. Kumis now tops my personal ranking of beverages, sharing the first place with Cretan rakomelo.
Deep in my heart, the warm waters of Issyk-Kul gently ripple. Now that’s a place I’d return to. God willing...
I dream of living on a semi-wild shore, in a place like Tony’s camp, with its unique mix of summer camp vibes, communal living, and military sanatorium atmosphere. Lying by the lake, swimming, wandering the surroundings, going on excursions, feasting on apricots, and mingling with the multinational crowd. Sampling every dish of local cuisine. Drinking my fill of kumis and indulging in kuruut.
I’d like to connect with the locals too. To blend in—greeting strangers, giving spontaneous gifts, maintaining a calm and unhurried demeanor.
I want to visit places where camels and yaks roam.
It seems I’m already starting to make plans...
So yes, it’s clear—I liked it.
I wish you a chance to experience Kyrgyzstan as well. It’s diverse and doesn’t have to be a budget trip—you can enjoy it in luxury too.
Thank you to everyone who at least skimmed through my long review. To those who read even half—my deep gratitude for your attention and time. I could have made it shorter, but I felt it was necessary to note things that might help other independent travelers. Some of these answers were impossible to find online; I discovered them only during my trip.
P.S. Trip Budget
The cost of plane tickets and insurance is listed in rubles; everything else is in soms. I exchanged money at various rates, sometimes unfavorable. But since the som and ruble are almost equivalent, there’s no point in calculating tiny differences.
I didn’t include the cost of getting from my city to Moscow and back to the airport.
All accommodations were booked on Booking.com with payment on-site. The site often lists prices in dollars, but payment is made in soms at the exchange rate on the day of check-in.
Total: Around 72,000 soms ($850)
@miranaya yazınız hoşuma gitti baya detaylıca anlatmışsınız emeğinize sağlık. Şu an karakoldayim burayla ilgili bilgilere bakarken denk geldim yazınıza
